


and many winds have blown me forth

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, a fic that asks the question 'what if one character thought critically about the tragedy of duscar?', also netteflix bc they're cute and I like reading about Annie through his eyes, anyway Annette is underrated as hell, mostly bc the characters use their goddamn heads, so she's the star of the show bc I said so, this all happens during the timeskip so like no byleth, this is only like kind of canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24340555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: Annette—that is, Baroness Dominic, Head of one of Faerghus’ Great Houses, bearer of her bloodline’s Crest and the rightful wielder of its ancestral Relic,Annie—has defected.“Defected?” asks Rodrigue, smooth, as though the concept is foreign to him; as though he does not spend every moment of every day under Cornelia’s reigndefecting.“How do you know?”Cornelia smiles—a quick, sharp, terrible thing—says, “I believe the exact moment I deduced it, Duke Fraldarius, is when she tried tokillme.”Felix’s knee jerks up involuntarily, hitting the underside of the table and rattling the dishes.“Ah,” says Rodrigue, reaching out to lay a hand over the ornate water pitcher wobbling precariously. It stills under his touch. “A rather astute deduction, your Grace."Or:Annette is trying to put the pieces together, and Felix trails after her, always one step behind. Timeskip AU.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	and many winds have blown me forth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“...a dry wind blowing  
>  inside my body,  
> scouring me from within, as if I were  
> a fossil, the soft parts eaten away.  
> Soon I will turn to calcium. It starts with the heart.”_ -Margaret Atwood

There’s a polite rap on Felix’s door, but he’s already awake—boots on, sword buckled, coat buttoned, hood drawn—and pulls the door open before they can knock again.

“Ah.” Vera’s knuckles catch just before connecting with Felix’s face, and she promptly drops her hand, lowering into a tidy curtsey. “Lord Felix, your father—”

Felix is already brushing past her. “I saw the rider,” he says, tone stiff with irritation. He turns the corner and his coat snaps at his heels, the sound overloud in the silence of the corridor. The sun isn’t even up yet, but half the castle already is.

One lone black rider in the dead of night.

Vera dogs his steps. “You should really be sleeping more, my lord,” she says, and since she’s one of House Fraldarius’ oldest retainers, Felix declines to pitch her off the roof for her commentary on his habits. Also it’s not even _dawn_ yet, and even Felix needs ample time to work up a proper anger, despite what Sylvain seems to think about him waking up furious.

Felix says, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Vera,” as he descends the stairs two at a time, tone clipped and cold, only because he knows Vera is the sole member of the household staff who isn’t appalled by his black humor. She has, in fact, called it _tedious_ on more than one occasion.

“Inspiring, Lord Felix. Truly,” Vera drawls back, determinedly keeping pace. Felix has long-since given up the mystery of how such a small and elderly woman is so singularly adept at matching the long, angry strides of Fraldarius men, though he supposes she’s rather practiced at it now that there’s two to follow around and they are both nearly always angry. Usually at each other. “I look forward to cross-stitching the motto on a pillow for you.”

Felix sighs, turning another corner. Vera is still beside him. He doubts she’ll leave him until she’s escorted him fully to Rodrigue’s study.

“Take it up with my father, if you’re so concerned,” he tells her, waving a dismissive hand that Vera outright scoffs at. As she should—all his twenty years Vera has minded him, and he’s never once been able to order her to do a single thing she does not already have the intention of doing. It’s probably why she’s their longest-serving retainer. And Felix’s favorite. “He’s the one dragging me out of bed at this hour.”

“Because I’m _certain_ you would be sound asleep otherwise,” Vera replies, arch and airy, the low, sturdy heels of her boots clicking familiarly along the stone floor as they reach the Duke’s wing of the castle. “As demonstrated by the fact that you were _already dressed_ when I came to fetch you.”

It’s Felix’s turn to scoff. Vera’s been after his habits for as long as he’s been old enough to have bad ones. Felix has—on _numerous_ occasions—pointed out that there are individuals with far worse habits than he, like, say, Sylvain Jose Gautier, for example, but Vera has always dismissed these remarks with a prim, _“Well, be that as it may, Lord Felix, Lord Sylvain is not **my** responsibility—and if I say a prayer of thanks for that every night, well, that’s between myself and the Goddess.”_

They climb another flight of stairs. All the windows lining the corridor are dark as pitch, and yet Vera has never seemed more lively.

“Think of all the wonderful dreams you’re missing out on, my lord,” she tells him, tone lined with false cheer that prompts an eye roll from Felix. “You could dream all night about being insufferably dour and dramatic, and then spend all day being insufferably dour and dramatic. The possibilities are truly endless.”

Felix is halfway to the beginnings of a smirk when it dawns on him—right. This always was Vera’s special skill. They’ve arrived at the door to Rodrigue’s study and he hasn’t once thought about—

One lone black rider.

“It’s House Dominic,” Felix blurts, because he has to know and if he’s going to show weakness to anyone in this castle, it _certainly_ isn’t going to be the man on the other side of the study doors they’ve stopped before. “The rider—he was from Dominic.”

Vera says, “Yes.” No inflection. No hesitation. Some part of Felix dully appreciates her immediate pivot to pragmatism, even while his nails draw blood from his palm as he crushes his hand in a fist.

“One lone black rider.” Felix doesn’t even mean to say it aloud. Vera’s expression softens, somewhat.

“These are strange times, my lord,” she tells him; even, measured, “a lone black rider does not always mean what it once did.”

She lays a hand on his elbow, gives it a squeeze. Felix supposes he ought to shake it off, but can’t quite muster the energy to do so. He’s felt that way a lot, recently—why expend the energy to do anything when he could just…not. He made the mistake of alluding to the feeling in a letter to Ingrid and she still writes near daily to ask after him in that blunt, abrasive way of hers.

 _ARE YOU TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF?_ one of her notes had demanded, all the letters capitalized as if to make up for the fact that she couldn’t be there beside him to yell directly in his face. _DO I NEED TO WRITE TO VERA? BECAUSE I WILL, FELIX._

Vera lets her hand fall. Felix idly misses its warmth.

“Nothing is for certain,” she tells him, soft. “The Dominics are strong Fhirdiad folk—their bloodline is old, nearly as old as the Kingdom itself. They know how to survive the winter.”

 _But this isn’t winter,_ Felix thinks, but has the good sense not to say. _This is **war.**_

He nods his thanks. Vera takes her leave.

Felix briefly considers knocking, but very quickly decides against it, and shoulders his way into his father’s study.

Two of Rodrigue’s personal guards flank the doorway as he enters. Felix jerks his head at the door, sharp—a clear dismissal. They don’t move.

“It’s quite alright,” calls Rodrigue from the corner of the room, never looking up from the paper in his hands. His brow is wrinkled in concentration—Felix wonders if he is even aware of the hour and its absurdity. Felix thinks part of the reason Vera hounds him about his sleeping habits so determinedly is because she knows there’s no hope for fixing Rodrigue’s. “I’m certain my son can protect me from any terrors that might slip into my study. You can post yourselves just outside, thank you.”

Felix sets his glare upon them as they make their exit, mumbling _, “my lord,”_ as they pass him. He resists the urge to knock shoulders with them, deciding instead to hunt them down later and go a few rounds in the training ring.

The study is silent. Felix can still remember being deathly afraid of the great room as a child—now it merely irritates him.

Rodrigue says nothing, still engrossed in the letter, so Felix strides across the room to his father’s desk. It’s overcrowded with maps, letters, ledgers, notes, various scouting reports. He leafs through them all, looking for—

“House Dominic,” says Felix, low, finally spying the envelope. The seal’s been broken, but he can make out the two distinct halves of their Crest. A gray envelope with a red seal, delivered in the dead of night by one lone black rider.

Someone from Dominic has died.

He’s ignored rather thoroughly as Rodrigue continues to scan the letter, one hand over his mouth, eyes narrowed as he sweeps them along the page. It doesn’t appear to be very long, but Felix knows his father well enough—he’ll carry around a note with only two sentences for hours, picking it apparent for some hidden meaning or secret message. It’s a habit that’s worsened in wartime. Felix wonders at what point political brilliance bleeds into plain paranoia.

But still—he stands and he waits, keeping his gaze carefully away from the Crest of Dominic.

A short eternity passes. Felix studies the map spread across a different, smaller table adjacent to his desk. The problem, in Felix’s opinion—though no one has thought to ask—with waging a war against a monarch you are technically in service to, is it makes planning the coup incredibly inconvenient. If it isn’t Cornelia herself darkening their doorstep with an unexpected visit, it’s one of her hundreds of underlings lurking around the castle. Felix had likened them to dogs in an aside to Sylvain the last time he’d visited—pointing out how they circle and salivate, waiting for just one scrap of information to fall, one single secret to slip out—and Sylvain had replied that the comparison was rather unfair to dogs.

 _“They’re more like cats,”_ he’d said, shrugging, _“y’know—shifty, mean, kinda shitty for no reason.”_

Felix had thrown him a sideways glance, mildly horrified. _“What the fuck are you doing to the cats in Gautier?”_

The map is mostly unchanged from the first time Felix had laid eyes on it upon his return from Garreg Mach—still too much red, too little blue. The only main difference, of course, is the obvious and unavoidable lack of the lion miniature that had represented Dimitri. His execution had prompted the first fight between Felix and his father; in truth, Felix still doesn’t believe they’ve ever worked past it. There’s still a singed strip of wall in the study from Felix’s reckless _thoron_ spell. He tries to find it, but it’s been artfully masked by a particularly bland landscape painting.

Felix has counted the individual windowpanes in the room seventeen times before Rodrigue finally hands the letter to him and asks, “Is this Annette’s hand?”

Relief floods Felix, but he keeps his expression fixed. If the letter is from Annette, then—

Their eyes catch. Felix knows Sylvain’s cramped scrawl and Ingrid’s tidy penmanship, but he has no reason to recognize Annette’s handwriting—no reason that his _father_ would know of—and it occurs to him that Rodrigue is testing a theory; exploring a hunch. Felix wonders if it is the war that’s prompted Rodrigue’s near-constant evaluation of his son, or if this is how it’s always been, and Felix is only now realizing.

He takes the letter. He _can_ recognize Annette’s hand—let Rodrigue lock himself in his study for hours to ruminate the meaning of it all he fucking likes.

Felix scans its contents—it is, in fact, Annette’s familiar script: written on a slant, slightly clumsy, hand never moving fast enough to keep up with her thoughts—and he sweeps through it with the same cold efficiency he studies battle maps.

 _Duke Fraldarius,_ it begins, _I write to inform you, per the laws established by the Gaspard Accords, that my uncle, Lord Gilliam, the Baron of Dominic and Head of House, has died._

Felix blinks. Once _._ He then continues reading.

_Though my father, Gustave Eddie Dominic, is the true heir of our family’s land, he has been anathematized from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus for his refusal to accede the just rule of Her Majesty Queen Cornelia Arnim, and as such is rightfully denied his birthright._

A muscle tics in Felix’s jaw—it’s Annette’s hand, yes, but not her words. She’d never speak about her father that way, now matter how much the bastard deserves it. And _anathematized?_ He keeps reading.

_In light of this, and with the blessing of Her Highness, I—Annette Fantine Dominic—do take on the role of Baroness and Head of House, so as to better serve my country and my Queen._

Felix’s vision snags on the word _Baroness._ It is several seconds before he is able to move on to her very prim _Yours Sincerely, Lady Annette, Baroness of House Dominic_ and several more seconds of staring at _that_ before he finally detaches his eyes from the letter to lift them back to his father, who watches with a familiar look of inscrutability.

Rodrigue lifts an eyebrow, says, “Well? What do you think?”

Felix does not say what he thinks—mostly because what he thinks is this is all absolutely rotten to the core and they need to be in Fhirdiad _yesterday_ to get Annette the hell out of there—but instead offers something somewhat adjacent to his opinion.

“She’s being used,” says Felix, dull. It’s the obvious answer, but he has no interest in surrendering any more ground to his father today. He’s off-balance at Rodrigue’s deduction that his relationship with Annette—even in his head Felix _bristles_ at that particular string of words—is of a certain nature that makes Felix the standing expert on what her damned _handwriting_ looks like.

Rodrigue hums, like what Felix said is even remotely insightful.

“But is it her hand?” he asks.

Felix nods—curt.

Another hum. “Then she still lives,” says Rodrigue, and Felix’s feels his features curdle at his tone—faint, blasé, like that coin could have come down either way, and it wouldn’t have mattered in the slightest.

Felix turns to face the fire, says, “The letter didn’t say how her uncle died.”

“It did not,” Rodrigue agrees. “Not unusual. The Gaspard Accords dictate Faerghus’ Heads of House must be informed when another Head of Houses has passed, but the next of kin are not required to share the cause of death.” He drifts over to his desk, absently righting some of the paperwork Felix had displaced in his search for the Dominic letter. “Most Houses decline to share—particularly if the circumstances surrounding the deceased are…” he trails off.

“Suspect,” Felix supplies darkly.

Rodrigue dips his head. “I was going to say _irregular,_ but yes.” There’s a pause; Felix’s ears twitch as Rodrigue moves across the room to stand beside him. He forces himself not to bristle at the proximity. “You are _certain_ it is her hand, Felix?”

 _“Yes,”_ Felix bites out, cold even to his own ears. He spent months reading Annette’s notes on Reason at the Academy—he still has her copy of _Beginning Sorcery_ upstairs in the mess of belongings he’d grabbed when the Monastery fell. The margins are filled with her own handwritten thoughts, opinions, questions, doodles. “I’m _certain.”_

Rodrigue’s jaw tightens, but otherwise he does not react to the ice in his son’s tone.

“This bodes poorly for Annette,” Rodrigue murmurs, and Felix is seized with the most irrational desire to hiss out _Baroness Dominic_ because fucking _Saints_ she only just got the title and he’s already casting it aside. “Cornelia will test her—she will want proof of loyalty.”

“She’s smart,” says Felix, glaring into the fire. The word _Baroness_ slips off his teeth; can’t find a handhold on his tongue.

Rodrigue says, “I know,” and Felix scoffs—of course. All-knowing Duke Fraldarius. He feels his father’s eyes flicker to him, but never looks away from the flames. “It is her intelligence that puts her at risk, Felix.”

His tone is so infuriatingly _wise._ Like he’s leading a lecture on politics, and not gambling with the lives of Felix’s friends.

“Her uncle declared for Cornelia the moment the war started,” Felix says. His hand twitches at his side—fingers curling in a simple arcane gesture Annette taught him years ago at the Academy. The flames leap in the grate, flaring up just enough to cast his face into brighter light. “The hag’s gotten all she’s wanted out of House Dominic.”

He turns to regard his father coolly over his shoulder. Rodrigue gazes back at him—studies him the way he studies books and charts and treaty outlines and battle maps.

“Baron Dominic was only ever a placeholder,” Rodrigue muses, slow, careful. “Annette has far greater use—far greater potential.”

Felix stares. Says, “You think she’ll be a pawn,” because sometimes baiting his father with the obvious is the only way to get him to explain what he’s thinking. It is a ploy absolutely relentless in its stupidity, but so is the fact that Rodrigue still has to be persuaded to share his thoughts with his only living fucking son and best Goddess-damned soldier.

“Quite the contrary,” Rodrigue says. Felix wonders how many plans are tumbling through his head—wonders how many of them end well for Annette. “I believe she could overturn the whole board.”

The words are heavy with implication. Lightning sizzles at Felix’s fingertips—a _thunder_ spell lancing through his veins. He curls his fingers over the magic.

“She isn’t going to be _your_ pawn either,” Felix hisses out before he can _shut his fucking mouth._ One of Rodrigue’s eyebrows lifts a near imperceptible amount. “House Dominic is still weak, and they’re still at the mercy of Cornelia. Just because Annette’s a Head of House doesn’t mean she can _do_ anything.”

It’s a lie, of course, because Annette can—quite frankly—do any fucking thing she wants. That’s the whole point of her work ethic: if she puts enough time and effort into it, she can make anything a reality. It’s how she passed the monk and the priest exams simultaneously. It’s how she taught herself the _excalibur_ spell after she’d been forbidden from learning it by the Church. It’s the whole reason he’d even been drawn to—

Felix locks the sentiment away before it can show on his face. Rodrigue assess him silently.

“I would never make her a pawn, Felix,” he says, slow, careful. Felix _hates_ when he measures his tone like that—it makes him feel like he’s walking into a trap. “Even if I could, she’s only a child. I have no intention of dragging her into this mess.”

 _A child._ Glenn had been seventeen when he’d died. Felix is older now than his brother ever was—than he ever will be.

“That’s the funny thing about war,” says Felix, tone fit to freeze, even here in the throes of a Faerghus winter. He still has Annette’s letter. Rodrigue has not asked for it back. “It doesn’t tend to particularly give a shit how old someone is.”

Rodrigue gazes back at him, stare like a throwing knife—even, balanced, and freshly sharpened.

“You’re dismissed,” he says, tone just a shade cooler than it had been before. Most people grow hot with their anger—Fraldariuses freeze over.

Felix scoffs, turns on his heel, and leaves. He does knock shoulders with one of his father’s guards on the other side of the door as he goes—he only has so much patience.

Annette’s letter burns a hole in his pocket.

_Yours Sincerely, Lady Annette, Baroness of House Dominic._

Saints fucking save him. What is he supposed to do about this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you'll never guess what has me in it's death grip again surprise it's Three Houses
> 
> idk what to tell y'all I woke up with a hunger for a) netteflix and b) a version of the azure moon route where every character doesn't have their head in the fucking snow for five years so I've decided to combine the two
> 
> lot of inconsistencies with canon. I play around with territories and years and all kinds of stuff but like if you don't put the fic up against a magnifying glass I don't think you'll notice
> 
> ~~can you believe Sylvain literally spells out all of the inconsistencies about the Tragedy of Duscar in his first fucking conversation with Dedue because holy shit I just replayed that and about launched my fucking switch into space~~
> 
> I have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/reduxwriter) where you can come yell at me if you want. hope to update this soon (and regularly wow what a concept) bc the idea has been eating at me. you can also read the rest of my FE3H fic [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/works?fandom_id=23985107)
> 
> fic title is from an excerpt of a poem by Sara Teasdale:
> 
> _And many skies have covered me,  
>  And many winds have blown me forth,  
> And I have loved the green bright north,  
> And I have loved the cold white sea._
> 
> have a good one kids <3


End file.
